


Five Things that Don't Help Clint Sleep (at Least in Isolation)

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Clint wears hearing aids, Getting Together, M/M, Sandwiches, fluffarama, not quite that kind of curtain fic but there is a curtain, shut up I like sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: Clint isn't that good at sleeping, and he's tried a lot of things.  But well, maybe they turn out to be useful practice in the long run?





	

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, just me poking at it for a longish time. If you observe typos and care to tell me about them, please feel free.
> 
> (also, the way the current US administration is doing gross things by the, uh, gross? I'm all about happy feels right now. This is total fluff.)

Clint struggles, sometimes (okay, lots of times), with sleeping. He _wants_ to sleep. He knows he _feels_ better when he gets enough sleep and more importantly as far as SHIELD is concerned he is also a more effective agent. Sleep is good. And yet.

He knows it’s a holdover from his shitty childhood, never being actually safe even in his own room, but that doesn’t really mean he’s ever gotten a handle on the whole check the locks, get cozy, commence sleeping for an extended period, thing. He does okay when he’s on a SHIELD base, mostly, but the rooms are tiny and he gets stir crazy quickly, so mostly he tries to just stay in his apartment and handle it. 

He fails often enough that he has a top-five list of Ways Clint Has Tried to Fall Asleep Which Don’t Work That Well (not that this has kept him from using them multiple, maybe dozens of, times). 

\--

**1\. Count sheep.**

It’s not so much that there’s anything wrong with the concept, but Clint has, among very few happy childhood memories, some rather fond ones of sheep, and so when he counts them, he names them and gives them entire backstories and families. Which is a fine exercise in creativity, but is not particularly useful for falling asleep.

Also, when he eventually does crash, waking up from a two-hour rest with bags under his eyes and a headache, the genealogy and adventurous history of Sherman the Sheep and his twin goat buddies Spike and Beauregard is not much comfort. And is not helpful in the production of his paperwork, on which he is always behind. 

Although probably he would do a better job of it if it were less boring. Like Sherman and the goats.

 

**2\. Throw things.**

Technically it probably counts as training or practice, but let’s be real; there is zero actual legitimate need. Clint is the world’s greatest marksman, so there’s totally no reason chucking balled-up socks at a box, or kitchen knives at a wall, or pepperoni onto a naked pizza crust, is necessary.

Also, so yeah, everything winds up where he throws it, but if he’s exhausted when he decides the what and where, his choices sometimes suck. For instance, it turns out if you neatly place 300 or so paper (by which he means paper towel folded together with aluminum foil to create a fairly dense, actually airworthy building material) airplanes so they exactly fill the bedroom window (where by ‘fill’ he means ‘create an impromptu blackout curtain), you might sleep through the morning briefing and piss off Hill, which is not the best idea.

Although now he does know how to make an impromptu blackout curtain that also dampens sound pretty good with ordinary corner market supplies, so there’s that.

 

**3\. Call Coulson.**

There’s nothing inherently wrong with this concept, either, but Clint has been nursing a ferocious crush on the man since about seven minutes after their first meeting, and the fact that Coulson always, always answers--well, no, if he’s not somewhere that requires mission security protocols that preclude answering, but please, Clint is a grownup and doesn’t call then, so yes, always--is doing one hundred percent of absolutely nothing to help with that problem.

He also always sounds happy to hear from Clint even if they spoke six hours ago in the shooting range or if Clint isn’t done with his after-action report from a week ago Thursday (although he does usually slide in a reminder but it’s the firm-but-kind kind of reminder people give to other people they _like_ , so Clint feels pretty great about that) means that not only does it not help with the sleeping, but it also gives him a whole other reason (after they hang up, he was not raised in a _barn_ ) to be wide awake, and because he has never been normal, Clint doesn’t usually fall asleep promptly after orgasms, so. Yes, no help there.

Although generally when he does eventually sleep in such instances, he sleeps pretty _well_ , so it’s not a complete loss.

 

**4\. Make sandwiches.**

Again, this doesn’t seem that weird. Maybe he can’t sleep because he’s hungry, and so right, make a sandwich, maybe a nice grilled cheese or a PBJ with chunky strawberry jam and smooth peanut butter on soft bread. Like, that’s the stuff, right? But no, it’s not that he’s feeding his body with the sandwiches. They’re all sort of like, a Zen thing? A feeling of rightness with the world when it has more sandwiches? And when a slice of bread is perfectly, neatly covered with a smooth layer of mayo or Skippy, or an even spiral of spicy brown mustard or sriracha. Maybe some of each. Maybe honey dripping just over the edges.

Of course, once the sandwiches are made, it’s not like he’s going to eat a whole loaf worth even on days there were Doombots, but it’s okay, he can give ‘em to people who look like they need ‘em. This largely means that as time goes by, his sandwiching schemes become increasingly elaborate so he has some of the classics--the aforementioned PBJ, maybe ham and cheese with mustard on white, pastrami and mozz with Dijon on rye--but also PB and onion, or smoked chicken and Gouda with avocado, olive-oil mayo and red bell pepper, or roast beef, horseradish, and cucumber. He wants the people who need sandwiches to get stuff they want, okay? And taking them out in a big box and handing them out at 2am, or the next morning, whatever, is kind of fun? But it doesn’t give him less on his mind in the middle of the night. 

Well. Except for thirty or forty people being less hungry, but that’s such a pervasive problem he knows he’s barely making a dent.

 

**5\. Hack in and create whole networks of phony meetings on other agents’ calendars.**

He only did this once. The less said about it (in front of Fury), the better, but just give him this much: it had taken all week for the 41 agents involved to work out what had happened, and even then, he hadn’t gotten caught. He’s pretty sure Coulson ~~thought~~ knew he was in on it, but no one found proof or asked him about it. And it totally was amazing, the scowls and cranky emails and everything. But no way he’s risking it again. 

Unless he comes up with a newer and better way, obviously.

Also it is 1000% not his fault that people IN SHIELD have passwords like Password1 and 123455. Come on. Secret agents, security, espionage, misdirection and control of the scenario… ringing any bells Jeff at the front desk? Ugh.

* * *

So that’s the top five list. Probably eventually it will turn into a top ten? Unless he starts counting clowns instead as then he will probably just never sleep again because hello, circus childhood, he _knows_ three out of five clowns are bad people who like to do horrifying things. This thing where people want to bring clowns to a child’s birthday party is a sign that society is on the downslide and gaining speed, man.

\--

Clint’s just considering a late lunch or very early dinner (Pizza? Mac ‘n cheese? Mac ‘n cheese pizza? Is that a thing?) when his phone buzzes in his pocket and although it’s a narrow escape from doom when he drops it, he juggles it, almost catches it, and somehow knocks it onto the counter between the open caramel dip he keeps for the neighbor’s kid to dip apples in (shh, he also heats it up and dips, come on it’s caramel, that’s why it’s sitting there being warm and gooey right now) and the soaking lasagna pan he keeps hoping will become “easy” to clean as he’s been told happens when one soaks things. 

He looks at the number. “Hey Nattyboo.”

“Barton, I could be calling from your fire escape, you know. And now you would be dead.”

“Nattalicious?”

“Not. An. Improvement. But on to the business at hand…”

“Fine, fine. What’s up?”

“Has Coulson checked in with you?”

“Since we got back? No?”

“I wondered why I hadn’t gotten any distressed texts from you about what to wear when you go check on him.”

“Uh. We got in this morning. I kind of think his priorities for the afternoon might have been like mine: nap until you can nap no more forever.” Not that Clint’s effort was particularly successful, but he maybe stayed down long enough to dream the concept of mac ‘n cheese pizza, so. He’s hoping it’s not ‘no more forever’, though.

“Right, but he was supposed to check in. That’s why they let him go home.”

“What? Wait, when…” Clint had stayed in Medical for the shortest period of time they’d allowed while they looked at his knee and decided it wasn’t too bad, and then bolted before they could realize the power surge had burned his ears just a little. Only slightly crispy? But, if Coulson had been injured he’d have stayed, but as far as he knew, that wasn’t an issue this time. 

“He was thrown from the car on the way back in? That side-swarm of jellyfish men?”

“Okay, so no one told me about that and maybe you know my ears were down for a while when the asshole one I was shooting with an electrified arrow, you know, suddenly banked left because sure why not and landed on me and thrashed around on my tech while it was dying?”

“Oh. Well, he hit a little hard. He’s probably fine. I’m sure he’s fine. But I’m on my way out to a side job in Kansas—“

“What the hell is even in Kansas?”

“My own back yard, is what film and literary history tells me, but it’s just an overnight. I have Cavanaugh with me, we’re good, go check on Phil.”

Clint blinks at the phone when she hangs up, then says to it, uselessly, “but what should I wear, Nat?”

Not that he actually, okay maybe a little, okay, but if it’s urgent(ish? Maybe she’s fucking with him? Or not. She’s a really good spy and doesn’t give voice cues) he should just throw on whatever. However, obsessing about Coulson has meant he’s thought about times Coulson told him he looked good and shut up maybe he has a Coulson-visiting outfit in mind (ha! I win, Nat!) and hey when he couldn’t sleep he even made sandwiches earlier so he has something to bring and okay they’re not gourmet but maybe that’s okay because after all tiny donuts, and what the hell why is he still standing here he has clothes to wear because right, going over there in the towel currently around his waist and with his hair uncombed (pssht like it’s ever not a little bit all over) would probably be weird. 

Unless it really _is_ urgent, but then if it was important enough to go naked probably she would have put off Kansas. Right? Okay, so clothes, sandwiches, go visit the boss.

No problem.

\--

Coulson doesn’t answer immediately, so Clint knocks again, shifting his weight foot to foot even though his left knee does kind of still hurt as he stands there with his little bag of sandwiches. He didn’t spend much time, but did bring one of each and left the rest for little Lucy and her brother downstairs because they love to help distribute them when he does it during the day and he is _all about_ helping kids develop social consciences. And their Mom said it was ok.

Finally, just about the time Clint is going to go break in via the little nook off the kitchen, he spots movement through the curtain and knocks one more time, the tap-taptapthump he’d use on the job to indicate he was back from a perimeter check, and Coulson opens the door. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants Clint has never seen (they’re thin. And torn. And look like probably Coulson has had them since college. They are the most dressed-down item imaginable) and a Wisconsin-Eau Claire t-shirt that seems to be of equal vintage. And he’s barefoot. And his hair is sticking up. He frowns at Clint. “You’re—but. Sitrep?”

“Nat said you were supposed to check in. I was just telling you it was me?” Clint mimes tap-taptapthump. 

“Oh. Hm. No, I was just trying, fairly ineffectively, to sleep, but when I pulled the curtains—“ Coulson opens the door wider and points crankily at his bedroom door, where Clint can see light streaming in.

“How do you not have good curtains?”

“I DO. Did. Apparently I use them too vigorously. Or that time with the werecat thing climbing them pulled harder than I thought.”

Clint arches a brow. “You said it was confined.”

“It was. In my apartment.”

“That thing was eighty pounds of muscley teeth, Coulson. With evil intent and claws that would make Wolverine think twice.”

“Yes, well, I got it back in its crate without incident.”

“You—okay, no, that was the week you had that god-awful limp and you said it was an overuse injury and went to Medical for…it was a gash, wasn’t it? You let a werecat gash your left asscheek with its fingerknives, and then you pretended everything was fine.”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”

“Uh-huh. And you _lied_ to me.”

“I would never, Barton. I… just might have not mentioned what got overused.”

“It was a werecat’s claws. Unless it bit you and now the full moon makes you chase mice in which case I am going to get the best laser pointer ever and lie in wait.”

“What. No. It wasn’t even a were in that regard and anyway it was just a graze. Wait, no, dammit, not confirming or… But anyway, that’s why I was working on foil and paper towels, because I am not going out to Home Depot in sweatpants on a Tuesday afternoon because my frigging curtains broke and apparently it’s the sunniest day ever to occur in New York. Hey, why are you here?”

“…Nat said—“

“Oh. Right. Anyway, I’m fine. Why do I smell barbecue?”

“I brought sandwiches?”

Coulson peers into the bag. “That looks like egg-salad.”

“It is. Barbecue chicken with guac and red onions is underneath. Hungry? I brought them in case.”

“And because you had them on hand because you couldn’t sleep either.”

“That too. Want me to take a look at your curtain?” Clint hands over the bag for Coulson to paw through (there’s a cranberry-turkey on wheat in there too, with whole stewed berries and cream cheese, honey, and hot mustard and a little bit of spinach. He’s figuring he’ll get that one because Coulson’s totally going to go for bologna and American cheese with mayo on white.)

“Yes.” Coulson finds the bologna jackpot and hands Clint the cran-turkey without asking, then points to his bedroom. “Please.”

So Clint goes in there and looks.

It’s not the first time he’s ever been, technically, in Coulson’s bedroom. He’s dragged him in after missions before, banged up and bandaged and maybe a little drugged, and Coulson’s done the same for him and so like, this isn’t totally new territory? But he’s never been here when Coulson was up and walking and talking, and also wearing sweatpants which on closer inspection have had their drawstring replaced at some point with what appears to be a neon pink shoelace.

It’s kind of maybe killing him a little? But he’s here for a job. Life has taught him that carrying around useful shit in his pockets is, um, useful, and so he fishes around and comes up with a small stapler, some safety pins, a couple of paper clips, a needle and thread, and a black trash bag in the inside pocket of his jacket. Any of these might be useful, and in a couple of minutes he’s rigged up the bag behind the curtain for an additional layer to cover for any pinholes and stapled the biggest rips back together with enough overlap to keep the light out. A couple of unbent paper clips work as hooks to keep the now-slightly-uneven side of the curtain flush against the window frame, and it just takes a couple of stitches to close up the smaller tears. 

He picks up the sandwich off the dresser and starts to holler, “How’s thi—“ when Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, hey. This work for now? You can go to Home Depot tomorrow. In pants that are not older then some people who have kids.”

“Hey, now. Also younger than some people who do not.” Coulson points at himself. 

“Far as you know.”

Coulson narrows his eyes. “I’d know. I’m not sure if you’ve been told, but I work for an intelligence agency?” He takes a bite of his mostly-eaten bologna sandwich.

“And you use that to creep on your exes?” Clint’s making quick work of his own sandwich and wondering whether probably he ought to move them toward the kitchen table, but he stays put instead because Coulson doesn’t seem to think eating together in here is weird at all.

“No, I use that to be aware of items which could be used to blackmail me. Or you.”

“Aware of me, or—“

“No, items that could be used to blackmail you, which we would deal with immediately.”

“Me, specifically?”

“…Yes? I thought you were aware.”

“I was aware you kept an eye on _me_ , but I mean, that’s because my adulting skills are, like, subpar.”

Coulson nods toward the curtain. “So I see.”

Okay, and so being in this space and also being approved of by Coulson… Clint is definitely pathetic. “So, I should probably go,” he says suddenly. It even sounds really sudden to him, and Coulson legitimately startles. 

“Oh. I thought we could …Dog cops?” He snags Clint’s forearm and turns them toward the living room.

“You were trying to sleep! I probably wouldn’t be that helpful.” But Clint let himself be led a couple of steps.

Coulson looks back at the bed. “Well, then you could tell me the continuing story of Sherman? I don’t know what the llamas are up to.”

Clint frowns. He’s told Coulson some of Sherman’s exploits on the comms while they wait for bad people to show up and do bad things, but like, “Are you, um, asking me to tell you a bedtime story? About Lloyd and Llenore’s llakeside llinguini stand?” Okay, the ll thing worked less well out loud than in his head, but shut up it was amusing.

“Maybe. Have they expanded to serve L-L llasagna as well yet?”

“Um.”

Coulson shrugs, the movement shifting his fingers slightly on Clint’s forearm, and adds, “You know you went off comms today.”

“No, I just lost ears for a few minutes.” He gestures at the tiny blisters at the lip of his right ear that are why he has only his left aid in right now. “It was an inconvenience, sure, but I mean, no crisis.”

“Not to me.” Coulson looks closely at Clint’s ear and then gestures for him to turn so he can examine the other one (it’s red. It’s not blistered. Everything is fine. It’s a little sore.) “Good thing it was your right that got the zap.”

“I know.” The other way, he’d have to wear both aids to hear well enough for ordinary conversation. He has enough biological hearing in the right to get by with one.

“But what I knew at the time was we lost you. The surge took out your biometrics as well.”

“Yeah, but those go down like eleven times a week, man. This one just sucked extra because of ears.”

“As far as knew, you weren’t talking and we had no signal.”

“Yeah, but—“

“And no one had eyes on you. And everyone could see the blast from the adjacent building. And… and until you came back on line I thought you were down.”

Clint shrugs again, because Coulson is giving him this look he doesn’t really know what to do with and also they are still standing in the bedroom and like, what?

“And so what I am saying is, I want you to stay.” 

“Because you hit your head.”

“I did hit my head. I am supposed to be resting. I was supposed to check in, but I forgot that because I was so relieved you were all right. Please stay.” Coulson slides his hand down Clint’s forearm and tangles their fingers together.

Clint lifts their hands up and looks at them, squeezing back and not letting go. “Yeah, so, I can stay, and I can tell you a bedtime story if you don’t mind that it definitely will not be coherent or have anything mundane like a beginning, middle, and end. But maybe you hit your head harder than they thought?”

Coulson makes a face at him. “Agent, do you know how to check for concussion in the field?”

“Well yeah, but—“

“And do I show signs of one? Am I slurring?”

“No, but you’re making weird declarations at me and it’s not like I _mind_ but like, when did this happen?”

Coulson shakes his head. “No idea.”

“See, so—“

“No, I mean, sufficiently long ago and with sufficient stealth that I can’t name a day.”

“Oh. Uh, okay, so…” Clint looks down at the last bite of sandwich in his free hand and shoves it in his mouth. “So what do you want to hear?”

“Whatever you want to tell me,” Coulson says. He steps back and pulls the Eau Claire shirt over his head, then flips down the switch that controls the bedside lamp, darkening the room to near-black. “Thanks for fixing my curtains, by the way.”

Clint only gets that quick moment to appreciate the firm shoulders and forearms before the lights go out, but he plans to hold onto the memory indefinitely. “So, where—“

“Here.” Coulson pulls Clint close to him, chest to chest, and wraps one of those forearms around the back of his neck. And then he leans in, slow, like he doesn’t want to spook Clint (what. Clint is so here for this there is no ‘there’ to consider), and presses his lips on Clint’s, opening up immediately and then letting Clint do every single thing he’s ever thought about when it came to kissing Coulson.

It’s a long minute before he breaks away, feeling flushed and aroused and definitely like it’s his birthday and also six to nine other holidays to be determined later. “Maybe we should take this to the bed?”

Coulson chuckles, low and a little evil. “I know you’ll worry if I razz you about being greedy, but can I safely tell you I like it?”

“You can tell me you like anything and I’ll do it.”

Coulson draws in a sharp breath, then chuckles again. “I’ll keep that in mind. Yes, bed.”

“OK.” Clint steps back to ditch his own jacket and shirt, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. “So, I’m calling in sick for tomorrow,” he says. “Because either we’re going to want to stay in all damn day, or because I’m going to be totally crushed if you kick me out.”

“Here. Give me that,” Coulson says. He punches in some numbers and then thumb-taps about four words. “There. Meetings everywhere and no one will notice we both called in. Because I wanna keep this development allll to myself for at least a day.”

Clint takes his phone back and scrolls up. “Boss, this—“

“Phil.”

“Yeah, but this is the…”

“Yep. Now are we going to talk about your hacker skills, or are we moving on to the ravishment portion of the evening?”

“Ravishment. Definitely ravishment.” Clint tosses his phone onto the side table and pulls Couson (Phil) with him to the bed. “Definitely.”

* * *

**1\. All of the above.**

So, on waking up, here’s what Clint knows. He slept better than he has in weeks. Maybe months. Years. Evers.

Before sleeping, there was definitely talking to Coulson (Phil), followed by orgasms. After the orgasms, there was the counting of the sheep (hey, he had a request to fulfill, and Abner the Alpaca had made Phil laugh which was even better in bed than out). And before, well basically, what he’s saying is that all his can’t-sleep skills had their best outcome ever in combination. And this morning it looks like maybe it can be an ongoing thing?

His phone buzzes, vibrating on the side table, and he picks it up. It’s a text, from Nat: _How’d it go? Sleep well?_

“She always knows,” Phil says, setting his head on Clint’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing you brought her in.”

Clint chuckles. “There goes keeping it to ourselves.”

“I can live with that,” Phil says. “If that’s the cost of this.” He flexes the hand that’s resting on Clint’s belly, and yeah, Clint can live with it too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Somnus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092047) by [Whisp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisp/pseuds/Whisp)




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